


running on empty

by jehoney



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Bulimia, Declarations Of Love, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Gritty Realism, Multi, Recovery, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vomiting, angst and pain, archie is kind of an asshole, archie's shitty truck, archie/jug is gonna be romantic, badly recieved, beronica are the dream, but jug has gotta work out his Health first, deliberately bad grammar in texts pls dont roast me, i'm genuinely so sorry for this, jealous bean archie, jug is bulimic, jug/reggie is platonic and supportive and distinctly non romantic, lots and lots of pancakes, lots of swears i'm sorry @ god, midge is an absolute babe, now complete !, reggie deserves some depth, reggie is a Health God, salads, soft reggie, what kind of au is this idk anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-27 03:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9951995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehoney/pseuds/jehoney
Summary: He’s raw, like the emotional exposure has given him sunburn, melanoma, and his stomach is trying to digest the food his brain has told it he swallowed, clenching around nothing and making his chest burn. This gives him just enough ammunition for a spat out: “None of your fucking business.” before he’s pushing out of the bathroom door, leaving Reggie bewildered and alone.jughead swears he doesn't need any help. until he does.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings for eating disorders and bulimia bc i know they're in the tags but i wanna be safe.
> 
> this is pretty self explanatory? kind of more comics based bc juggie doesn't eat that much in the show, but set within the world of the show or something idek. reggie n jug have a friendly(ish) rivalry when will the show acknowledge reggie as anything other than a 2D jock (:
> 
> this may become multi chaptered but i have some exams coming up so ehhh
> 
> enjoy?

There was a time when eating three stacks of Pop’s pancakes wouldn’t make Jughead feel sick to his stomach, but he’s not sure he can remember that time. That’s in no way a metaphor, either, because as soon as he manages to force down the last mouthful, the bile is already rising in the back of his throat. He makes himself sit for as long as he can (immediately running to the bathroom is somewhat suspicious) before he pushes out of his booth, shoots Pop a bland and forced smile on the way past the counter, shoulders his way into a stall and vomits the contents of his stomach up into the toilet. And he feels sick at himself. Metaphorically, this time.

When all this started, it wasn’t a reflex to waste that much food in one sitting. He used to have to make himself sick, with fingers down his throat, or eat so much that he couldn’t hold it down, but now, his reaction to any amount of food is digestive rejection, accompanied by a healthy helping of self-loathing. It’s the guilt, really, he’s under no illusions that this kind of behaviour is going to make him even marginally more attractive, but the truth is, he loves food, loves it when he’s eating it, and afterwards feels so guilty about having done so that he needs to get it out of his system, as soon as possible.

Which explains why he’s kneeling over a toilet at Pop’s, having thrown up $12 worth of pancakes.

 

* * *

 

School, though, is the real battle.

It’s pizza in the cafeteria today, (Jug loves pizza) and he’s wolfed down ten slices, which isn’t even close to his record. Both the benefit and drawback of this being that Jug’s appetite before he started purging was already so great, no-one notices anything out of the ordinary when he binges: Archie cheers him on, Betty laughs, and Veronica rolls her eyes when he gets tomato sauce on the corner of his mouth. He’s glad he brought his toothbrush in his bag.

The problem lies, however, in double biology. He’d thought he could manage through the lesson keeping himself under control, but his body’s ache to be empty proves to be too powerful and he’s forced to excuse himself with some lie through gritted teeth, lurching down the corridor to the restroom. Afterwards, his throat burns, and he leans over the bowl, retching, too exhausted to pick himself up just yet. Then:

“Hey, man, are you okay?”

He expects Archie to have followed him out of the classroom, or maybe Kevin, but the one person he does not expect is there. The one person standing in the open door of the bathroom stall is Reggie Fucking Mantle.

Jughead does not have time to deal with whatever he’s going to have slung at him today, so he flushes the toilet and pushes past to the sinks, offering an excuse he hopes will get the guy off his back.

“It’s just a stomach thing, highly contagious and all that.”

In the mirror, as he brushes away the foul taste, he can see Reggie lean against the stall (he’s surprised the structure can take his weight) and raise a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Have you had this all week? Only, I heard you in here last Tuesday too.”

Jughead whirls around, and curses himself at the suspicious speed of the action, trying his best to stand his ground with a toothbrush hanging out of the corner of his mouth. But there’s something soft in Reggie’s expression that makes him bristle, and Jug speaks the next words into the sink, so they chase his spit down the plughole.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

He feels his cheeks burning at his own stupidity: not only has Reggie known for at least a week, if someone so emotionally opaque has caught on, that means anyone could have. It was so much easier in the summer, when he wasn’t trapped in a concrete box with timetables to follow and 500 teenagers watching his every move. When no-one needed to know his business.

As he slings his bag over his shoulder and makes to leave, he’s stopped by Reggie’s response.

“I wouldn’t do that, dude.”

And Jug’s so close to using the acid that lingers in his mouth to spit out a quip about Reggie’s ridiculous jock language, or muster his most scathing “why do you even care?”, but as he looks at the boy, he remembers that period in kindergarten, when he, Archie and Reggie would actually enjoy each other’s company, before the ugly spectacle of cliquey pageantry reared its head, and suddenly the venom dies on his tongue (but the aftertaste remains, mingling with spearmint).

“How long have you been…?”

Reggie’s unfolded his arms, dropped some of his overblown armour and he reaches out for Jug’s shoulder, or maybe bicep, all Jug knows is he wants to touch him and he’s opened up enough of himself for today. He’s raw, like the emotional exposure has given him sunburn, melanoma, and his stomach is trying to digest the food his brain has told it he swallowed, clenching around nothing and making his chest burn. This gives him just enough ammunition for a spat out: “None of your fucking business.” before he’s pushing out of the bathroom door, leaving Reggie bewildered and alone.

Jug appreciates the effort, he tells himself, as hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes and his muscles strain from keeping his rapid walking pace whilst running on next to nothing. He’s grateful, he swears. He’s just doing Reggie a favour, because at this stage, Jughead is a lost cause.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which jughead and reggie talk (briefly) and jughead and archie talk (less briefly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is chapter two because i am procrastinating my revision !
> 
> i have no clue what kind of au this is, but jug is still homeless but he and archie are still bffs? who are lowkey into each other c'mon
> 
> enjoy x

Reggie does not seem to grasp the concept that Jug vehemently does not want his attention, let alone his pity. Still, that doesn’t seem to stop him from grabbing Jug as he’s coming out of school with Archie, headed towards the latter’s beat-up old truck. It’s not a physical grab, because Jug would punch him if he even tried, but the approach and the low way in which he asks: “Can I talk to you?” lets Jug know that there’s not really much choice in the matter. Still, at least he asked.

He moves to the side of the flow of students and tells Archie to wait up in the car, the latter shooting him a look of bewilderment that could be amusing, were it not for the circumstances. He’ll have to make up some excuse for it later, like he’s helping him with his math homework, despite the fact that Reggie is, despite all outward appearances, fucking ace at math.

“Look, man,” Reggie starts awkwardly, like all teenage boys do once they’ve been conditioned out of talking about Feelings and Emotions, “It must be really shitty—“

“How the fuck would you know?” and Jughead is disappointed that his venom falls flat at this volume, instead he sounds petulant and whiny and, despite the fact his stomach is empty from earlier, he feels sick. Nothing new.

Reggie takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to stop himself from smacking Jug, and Jug can hardly blame him, he’s being an asshole.

“My cousin used to do it. She used to eat a shitload and then… throw it up.”

There’s something between them that makes Jughead feel like Reggie’s never told anyone this before.

“Then she just started eating less in the first place and… Long story short, she ended up in hospital. So it’s shitty. I know.”

And through the dull hum of a dehydration headache, Jug musters up some regret, and drops some pride.

“I-I’m sorry.”

“I just want you to know that if you need someone to, like, talk to, or whatever-- I’m not the greatest at… counselling or anything but—“

The jumble of words break off and his eyebrows are furrowed in frustration at his own inarticulate speech, but Jug manages a small smile to let him know he’s got the picture. He doesn’t let Reggie know that he is, by this point, an expert at isolation, and any attempt to break down his barriers is going to have to be triggered by some severe trauma.

He tries (and fails) to not raise his eyebrows as Reggie hands him his phone number on a scrap of paper, like something out of a cheesy bar pick-up scenario. Upon noticing this, the guy lets out a huff of laughter, and a surprisingly light-hearted: “Don’t get any ideas, Jones. I don’t think Archie would forgive me.” before he turns and heads off to his obnoxiously shiny car.

Slipping the scrap into the pocket of his jacket, Jug makes his way over to Archie’s disappointment of an automobile. It seems like every muscle in his body is tensed; you’re supposed to feel good after talking about your problems, right? Like a release? All Jug feels is wound up as tight as he can go, now that someone with so much social sway knows his secrets. He thinks he trusts Reggie, but if this was aired, things could get very ugly, very quickly. Jug dumps his bag in the footwell of Archie’s truck, and grimaces at the creaks it makes when he hops into the passenger side.

“You really should get that fixed, man.” He notes, drumming his hands on his knees as they pull away from the car park, but Archie is having no deviation from the subject on his mind, so he responds with a question, direct and, if Jug’s not mistaken, with a hint of accusation.

“What were you talking about with Mantle?”

Jug tries to gauge the redhead’s expression, but his eyes are fixed on the road.

“Does it matter?”

“No, no,” There’s definite insincerity there, Jug can smell it, he’s known Archie too long for him to hide it, “It’s just… All Reggie seems to do is terrorise you. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

The last is spoken with a relatively convincing smile, but the tension is uncomfortable so Jughead tries to make light of it.

“Are you jealous, Andrews? Think Reggie might be into me?”

He laughs at the ridiculousness of his own statement, a short, sharp, laugh, cut off by the restriction of his chest. Archie’s not laughing.

“Does it matter?”

This winds Jug, having his own deflection thrown back at him, having Archie being on a completely different level when they’re usually so in sync. It used to be fun, dancing around each other like this, Archie poking at Jug’s jealousy every time he’d go out with Betty, Veronica, Cheryl, Val, and God knows who else, Jug maintaining resolutely that he’s more jealous of the good food they’re eating; he’d rather be in a relationship with that than Archie. He supposes he is in a relationship with it, in a sense. A love-hate relationship. An abusive relationship.

But lately this skirting around the subject has become uncomfortable, or maybe too comfortable. Jug’s not good with structures but just this once he wishes Archie would put some boundaries on this, some labels, so he knows where they stand.

He remembers Cheryl’s last party, when he was stone-cold sober (because he throws up enough without the addition of alcohol, thank you), and Archie, drunk, handsy Archie, got in his face with a cheap disposable camera and spirits on his breath, took his reluctant picture and pressed him up against the counter, mumbling something unintelligible before moving away again. He still has the picture, down at the bottom of his bag because he doesn’t trust those he shares the hostel room with. He’s wrapped up in a jumper that used to be just the right side of oversized, but which looks too oversized to be right, with his arms folded around him. In the corner, there’s the overexposed crescent of Archie’s inebriated finger in front of the lens, and that’s the bit Jug likes to look at most, not his own brittle hair falling out of his cap, or his sharp cheekbones, or the bags under his eyes.

When he looks at it he can still feel the full length of Archie’s body pressed up against him, and he’s not interested in the sexual connotations, but just the fact he hasn’t let Archie hug him in a really long time. No-one wants to hug someone who’s all angles, anyway.

All of this flashes by as he avoids Archie’s question (he feels it was rhetorical anyway) by staring out of the window, fingers tapping more frantically at his jeans until he can feel them getting clammy and a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“Arch, can you drop me home?” he doesn’t mean to blurt it out quite so suddenly, and Archie glances at him worriedly.

“I thought we were going to hang at mine?”

“I can’t right now, Arch.”

“Was it what I said? Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel—“

“Just… drop me home. Please.”

And Jughead thinks he maybe has a problem with interrupting people.

He also considers he may have a problem maintaining meaningful personal relationships, but that’s a problem for another day, when his stomach isn’t starting to rumble again. He knows it would just be rude vomiting in Archie’s bathroom, so he may as well go home, or rather the hostel he calls home, ring up a disgusting amount of takeout and go to bed on an empty stomach. Sounds like a plan.

As he clambers out of the truck, he tries not to look at Archie’s face, concerned and hurt.

The slip of paper in his pocket weighs a ton.


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reggie helps, archie is a jealous bean, midge appears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soo this turned into a hecking novella of a chapter but i can't bring myself to split it so enjoy
> 
> as usual, tw for eating disorders, vomiting etc, i'm trying to be as sensitive/accurate as possible but i have never had bulimia/ an eating disorder so if there are any problematic elements lmk. i'd like to clarify that whilst there is some development/recovery in this chapter i'm in no way saying that jug is Better after one fuckin salad there's a lot more to come i just thought i'd make that clearrr
> 
> reggie is a total gym lad who makes super nutritious meals pass it on (he's also super soft goodbye)
> 
> also! the reggie/midge comes from 'reggie and me #1' and i fell in love with it and also midge, so y'all should check it out, she's a real cool gal and much more than "closeted moose's hetero girlfriend"

Once he’s lay in bed, after throwing up for the third time in twenty-four hours, Jughead cries, because he’s too exhausted to do anything else. He wants to curl up on himself, compact himself to the smallest he can, but his stomach is too painful, so he settles for reaching up to pull at his hair. That, though, just reminds him of how brittle and dry it’s gotten. He’s read the internet forums, he knows that if he doesn’t stop then soon it’s going to start coming out in his hands, and his crying becomes panicky, hiccups of fear at turning into some kind of tissue paper shadow of himself, tearing and fraying at the edges.

The two guys who had been sharing the room with him for the last week have left, and no-one’s arrived to replace them, so his pathetic sounds echo in an empty room, restless hands grabbing at sheets  for some kind of anchor. Simply for something to do, he reaches for his phone, and finds the five texts from Archie he’s been trying to ignore and this just makes him cry harder. Archie was supposed to be the first one he told, the one he would break down to and they’d work through it together, and even though he hasn’t broken down to Reggie, per se, he still feels like he’s committing a betrayal. So he can’t bear to read the texts, instead opening the half finished draft he’d begun an hour ago, when he was sat against the foot of his bed, bloated and surrounded by reminders of his own vileness that he’s, by now, shoved in the trash. Destroy the evidence, deny the crime.

He deletes the beginning of it, and starts it again, before sending it immediately, so he can’t be tempted to take it back.

 **to:** reggie mantle ??  
_so how did your cousin get out of this? it’s hell._

Reggie obviously isn’t asleep either, because less than a minute later he receives a reply.

 **from:** reggie mantle ??  
_Patience, and she had to get really sick before she had the motive to. I wouldnt recommend doing it tht way_

Jughead takes a deep breath as he calms down from his semi-hysteria, comforted by the human interaction, albeit virtual. He’s trying to think of a reply, but all he can come up with is how much he doesn’t want to get really sick, doesn’t want to go into hospital, doesn’t want to kill himself in this disgusting way, and he’s getting panicky again before his phone lights up.

 **from:** reggie mantle ??  
_what do u eat? Before you throw it up_

And he can’t help but smirk at the bluntness, shooting back a reply.

 **to:** reggie mantle ??  
_burgers, fries, pizza, pop’s stuff. it’s a bitch bc it’s so expensive_

 **from:** reggie mantle ??  
_No wonder you regurgitate it. Trash food_

Jughead actually laughs at Reggie’s jock intolerance of junk food, wiping his wet cheeks, but is forced to agree. It’s trash, which might be why it’s so easy to bring it back up again. He eats it to feel full, then he purges to feel empty, like he’s an undecided pendulum swinging between two extremes that he wants equally badly. Another text rings through.

 **from:** reggie mantle ??  
_I’m making you a salad tomorrow_

And Jug has to read it several times before he can understand it. He knows the kind of salad Reggie means: the ones he posts on his Instagram with iceberg lettuce, shredded chicken, and a lack of carbs that is somewhat disturbing to him, but Jug remembers his current relationship with carbs, and thinks that it’s probably for the best. Somehow, he doesn’t think he’s going to end up a protein shredded athlete any time soon, but he might as well change up his diet; see if his stomach has any more tolerance for leaves than it does for burgers. The thought is kind of ridiculous: Reggie, finishing a masterpiece of a salad with a delicate sprig of basil, apron tied around his waist, and Jug has to stop himself from replying with something scathing, because he is, after all, trying to help.

 **from:** reggie mantle ??  
_I look forward to it_

And as he shuts his phone off, and turns on his side, he laughs again. Because somehow, through nothing more than being spied on in the bathroom, Jughead has snagged himself Reggie Mantle as his nutrition guardian angel.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up twenty minutes after his first period has started.

As he scrambles out of bed, his muscles strain with fatigue, and he’s got another pounding headache, so knocks back a couple of aspirin, before checking his phone to find three more unread messages from Archie on top of the ones from last night. He pulls a shirt on, makes a note to head to the laundromat sometime soon, and summons enough mental strength to open them.

 **from:** archie  
_you feeling okay?_

 **from:** archie  
_sorry about what I said in the car_

 **from:** archie  
<attachment> _the burrito i’m having without u is lonely_

 **from:** archie  
_forsythe???_

 **from:** archie  
_jfc jug I said im sorry_

**TODAY**

**from:** archie  
_i’m outside_

 **from:** archie  
_can u hurry  up please i don’t want weatherbee to rip into me_

 **from:** archie  
_whatever I guess ur walking_

He can’t bring himself to open the attachment, knowing that it would make him ill, but at this stage he’d be ridiculous if he didn’t reply, so shoots off a quick one before he locks the door behind him and heads downstairs.

 **to:** archie  
_sorry man I slept in_

It’s a pathetic excuse, he knows that much, but a lot about him has been pathetic lately, and Archie was kind of an asshole. Jughead pulls on his hat, stuffs his hands into his pockets and stalks off in the direction of school.

 

* * *

 

After what can only be described as a horrendous morning, the Tupperware container in Jughead’s locker is a welcome sight. Reggie must have asked reception for his combination, and deposited it when Jug was in his lesson, because it contains a rather appetising salad, with a note on the top that simply reads:

_‘Don’t feel bad if you hurl it’_

It wrings a wry smile out of him and he slips it into his pocket, taking the box in hand and making his way to the cafeteria which is, luckily, serving the one dish that Jug cannot stand: fish pie. Therefore, there’s no temptation for him to supplement the salad with anything else, and, despite the fact he’s not had any breakfast today, Reggie’s lunch seems to be filling him up, for once not in that overstuffed way.

“That looks good, Jug,” Betty waves a fork at the box, and he knows what she’s really trying to say is “Wow, Jug, I’ve never seen you eat so healthily!” but he nods and agrees because it really does. It’s got the shredded chicken in, and grated parmesan on the top, and Jug is amazed at how crisp the leaves are – he has to stop himself as he seriously considers asking Reggie about his lettuce supply. What on earth is he turning into?

He glances down the table to where Archie has deliberately sat away from him, and smiles at him, to receive a polite, reciprocation, but not much else, so he turns back to his meal and stabs at the remaining leaves in frustration, before pulling out his phone.

 **to:** archie  
_sorry for yesterday, just needed some time alone. forgiven?_

Surreptitiously, he spies Archie take out his phone at the text alert, sigh, and look up at him with a smile, genuine this time

 **from:** archie  
_of course_

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t throw up his lunch.

He doesn’t throw up the salad Reggie made him and he’s not sure whether that’s because he’s not full enough to feel sick, or whether because Reggie made it for him it feels like a gift. Because it does, and despite the note he knows he’d feel guilty about wasting it, so it settles, albeit turbulently, in his stomach, and stays there.

All afternoon he feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something, like at any moment, when he’s chewing the end of his pen in Spanish, or making his way down the corridor to his next period, at any moment he’s going to be overcome with nausea. It’s almost definitely some kind of placebo effect, because he’s conditioned himself for too long to solve this mess with a single fucking salad, but he can’t help feeling proud of himself when it doesn’t come.

Once the school day ends, Jughead decides he needs to give Reggie back his box; he also needs to thank him, but the box is definitely the reason he makes his way down to football practice and risks intense exposure to the World of Sport.

The bleachers are empty, save for a single figure, and the team is running up and down those ridiculously small ladders that Jug wonders if they know are absurd, exaggerated shoulder-pads making the scenario all the more amusing. As he mounts the steps to the seats, a sweaty, panting, Archie catches sight of him from where he’s warming up, and jogs over, oozing jock.

“Hey, man, practice doesn’t finish ‘till five,” he beams, and Jughead has always been amazed at his easy forgiveness, and inability to hold grudges, “You can wait, though, if you want?”

And Jug realises that Archie thinks he’s here to see him, or beg a lift home, because why else would Jughead Jones be hanging out at football practice, right?

“Uh, yeah, sure.” he manages, and now he has to stay here for another hour and a half, on the exposed steps. It’s not a cold evening, late September still has some of its warmth left, but he feels a chill seeping through his jacket. Some part of him offers that that may be due to the malnutrition, but he’s trying to have a good day, so that part can fuck off for now.

After watching the team do whatever the hell football teams do at practice, and growing steadily colder, Jug manages to catch Reggie’s eye, who makes his way over at the earliest opportunity, setting himself down on the bench with a creak that somewhat alarms Jug. If there’s one thing Reggie never lets anyone forget, it’s his size, and Jug thinks this is probably due to the fact that as of 10th grade, he always was the shortest kid in the class. Now, with shoulder pads and muscle, Jughead feels dwarfed next to him, only able to look down at his boots as he speaks.

“Thanks for the salad.”

He pulls the box out of his bag and places it on the bench between them.

“Did you chuck it?”

“No, actually.”

And Reggie turns to him with a dry smile.

“I’ve cured you.”

Jug laughs at the sarcasm, and shakes his head.

“It was a good salad, but I don’t think one meal’s gonna solve everything.”

“Then I’ll make you one tomorrow. And the day after.”

As simple as that. Jughead looks back at the field, and sees Archie taking a drink from his water bottle, watching the two of them with narrowed eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks Reggie, not accusatory, genuinely curious, and it takes a good minute before he gets a reply.

“I don’t know. I guess… there was a time we didn’t hate each other, right?”

They’re both looking out at the field now, and Jug nods in the corner of Reggie’s vision. There’s a moment stretching between them, dredging up memories of pushbikes and playing by Sweetwater River. Then, in a change of thought, Reggie turns, and points at the only other individual on the bleachers.

“You know Midge, right?”

And Jughead does. She’s slight, small, with dark, choppy, cropped hair, almost his twin, other than the fact that she’s ten thousand times more punk rock than he’ll ever be. He knows, in fact, that her parents run the shelter he lives in, but also figures Reggie doesn’t know about his current living situation, the only people who are aware of that are Archie, Ronnie, Betty and, of course, Midge. He knows that the cigarette’s she’s smoking are menthols, because he used to bum them off her, when he was trying to find out just what made him look outcast enough. It wasn’t smoking, in the end, it was obsessive vomiting. He knows, lastly, that she broke up with Moose, whom she had been dating for four years, last month, after he’d told her he wanted to ‘explore himself’, a surprisingly amicable affair in all. She didn’t care that Moose wanted to kiss guys, he just probably should’ve waited until they’d broken up to do it. Jughead knows a lot of things he probably shouldn’t know about Midge, but one thing he doesn’t is why she’s here now, watching her ex-boyfriend train, perched in the bleachers like Ally Sheedy circa 1985.

He decides not to let Reggie know just how much background he has on her, settling for simply:

“Yeah, why?”

Reggie sighs deeply, and runs a hand through his damp hair.

“I asked her out. Right after she broke up with Moose—It was crappy timing, but I’ve been wanting to do it for _years_ and…” he trails off, “She called me an asshole, said I was inconsiderate, said a lot of shit about me being a heartless jock. I don’t know. She makes me want to be better.”

Jughead wonders what it is about punk pixie-cut girls that makes jocks want them so badly.

“So, you’re helping me out to show Midge that you actually have a soul?” he asks, wryly. He’s got nothing against that in the slightest, if it means another few salads, but the sweetness of Reggie’s intentions intrigue him, “What if she just doesn’t want to date you?”

The quarterback looks down at his hands, twisting them in his lap.

“Then I’ll have helped someone out.”

Again, simple as that.

Reggie’s called back to practise at that point, and Jug spends the rest of the time watching Midge, watching the sky change, and watching the aggressive, pointed way Archie plays, taking each and every opportunity to tackle Reggie that he can. Afterwards, the car ride home is silent, save for the creaking of the truck, and Jughead, by now, knows that Archie’s jealous, because that’s the only reason the tops of his ears ever turn that red.

As far as Jughead is concerned, Archie Andrews can speak his mind, or get over himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q2p4_BvqmMU/V5JEGFrBGzI/AAAAAAAA5NA/hQGh0cgj-yQvFs5gcTfIS3FUIQA7csZkQCLcB/s1600/Midge.jpg
> 
> MIDGE


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> three guys in a toilet. some revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmmmm archie doesn't know when to profess his love poor archie
> 
> ofc i love cheesy fic endings and dramatic fictional declarations of love but irl that shit is not ! always! cute ! so here's some Gritty Realism to make y'all sad and annoyed at me :)
> 
> also the literary finesse deteriorated towards the end of this but idk how to put it right. it'll get back up there next chapter xx
> 
> enjoy!

The next day, there’s another salad in his locker, which half makes up for Archie not showing, and Jug having to walk to school in the rain. The rain, however, seems to have washed off yesterday’s charm, and the cafeteria is serving quesadillas, which Jug eats three of after caving, alongside the salad, before regurgitating it all in the bathroom. For the rest of the day he’s clammy, the damp has soaked into his skin, and he can’t bring himself to meet Reggie’s eye in the corridor.

The third day, he keeps it down, but only because he’s got no cash to buy anything else, and he’s certain Archie wouldn’t pay for him, even if they were speaking anything more than civil greetings to each other. Like the first time, his digestive system is in no way settled, but he considers it a small victory.

A fortnight passes, and Jughead categorises the days into good and bad. Good, in his terms, has proven to be a very low bar, because the only criteria for a good day is whether or not he throws up his lunch, regardless of how bad the rest of it could be. And the bad days outnumber the good, obviously, a fact which naively disappoints him every time, despite how often he tells himself that this is going to take a lot of patience. Some (Most) good days turn bad at dinnertime, and those days are the worst, when he feels like a horrible failure and has to text Reggie, after he realises he can’t talk about this with Archie at all.

Reggie starts to experiment with the meals, and Jughead really is genuinely intrigued as to where he learned his culinary skills. Some days there’s pasta, others rice, but every time the meals are light enough that they never weigh him down, or make him feel ill, like the stuff he usually eats. In return, Jug talks to Midge, only occasionally, when they’re thrown together in classes or on the bleachers, whilst he watches Archie stoically avoid his gaze during practice. He’s hasn’t got the first idea about matchmaking, let alone relationships, but he manages to glean from her just how quickly Reggie swooped in, and try and explain his motivations as best he can. What he gets in return is a sceptically raised eyebrow, as if she can’t believe he’s trying to defend Reggie Mantle, of all people. He can’t believe it either.

Today, so far, Jughead has had a good day. Reggie’s latest creation is some medley of tuna, pasta and sweetcorn, and as he digs into it at the cafeteria table he gets a text alert.

 **from:** reggie mantle  
_So midge asked to partner up for history project ?? !_

And he looks across the cafeteria to catch the guy’s eye, shooting him an impressed smile.

Veronica, who’s sat directly opposite him, given Archie’s deliberate move down the table, is eyeing his lunch with the kind of wanton expression she only gets when Betty wears a miniskirt, her own meal neglected.

“You know, you’re going to _have_ to teach me how to make these insane lunches, Juggie,” she says, and Jug laughs internally at how anyone could assume he knows the first thing about cooking healthy meals.

“One day, Ronnie,” he taps the side of his nose with the finger of the hand holding his fork, “One day.”

She matches his smirk, and continues to eat.

“I guess you’re a real health freak now that you’re hanging out with Mantle, huh, Jug?”

The comment is hurled from where Archie is sat, and lands on the table in front of Jug, ruining his appetite completely. If there’s something that’s really shocked him about this last couple of weeks of recovery, it’s Archie’s ability to be a complete and utter asshole about it, and how much that, in turn drains him of energy. Because he wants to keep the day a good one, he shoots back a “Leave it out, Arch.”, but replaces the lid of the container. He doesn’t feel like eating any more today.

“Sorry, man, didn’t mean to out you two lovebirds to the whole cafeteria.”

And it’s not the accusation that Jug is Not Heterosexual that feels like a kick to the stomach (because let’s face it, everyone knows he’s not), but the fact that Archie thinks it’s sufficient grounds for an insult, and Jug gets a horrible lurching feeling that maybe he’s been imagining something more to Archie’s behaviour this whole time. It’s undeniably jealousy, but whether that moment at Cheryl’s party meant what he thought is thrown into doubt, and maybe Archie’s only jealous platonically, and why does that thought make Jug want to heave? His palms are sweaty, a sign that he should make a quick exit, but half the table has taken interest in them now, so he has to reply, through gritted teeth, before he gags.

“You know, maybe if there actually _was_ something happening, you’d have an excuse for being the most transparently jealous asshole around.”

As he pushes himself up from the table and makes some kind of half-running attempt for the door, he can see Veronica’s wide-eyed expression of shock, Reggie standing worriedly to follow him, Archie flushing deeply, all in a kind of fast-motion blur that he doesn’t altogether register, but passes by in his field of vision. The corridor swims, and he can tell there are at least two people behind him and he prays to all divine forces that one of them isn’t Archie, but knows that it almost definitely is. He makes for the disabled toilet, not only is it the closest, but it’s also the most likely to be empty, (Nice job, Jug, get sick at the busiest time of day) and then he remembers that he’s just run out of the cafeteria incredibly publicly, a fact which makes him heave even more forcefully, knuckles gripping white on the edges of the toilet bowl as Reggie’s latest culinary masterpiece is regurgitated.

Once he’s finished, he’s shivering violently, dropping back against the wall and drawing his knees up to his chest. He finds that someone’s shut the door from the outside to preserve some shred of his dignity, Reggie and Archie’s voices muffled but audible as they argue in the corridor.

“I’m not going to fucking let you in, Andrews.”

“I swear to God, Reggie, I will knock you out!”

The small room is still swaying and the high, letterbox window being the only source of light and air raises more panic in him than the thought of Archie finding out what’s going on so, with some difficulty, he manages to raise his voice, shuddering and painful as it is.

“Open the door, Reggie.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

If he’s being completely honest, the look on Archie’s face makes him want to curl up and die.

Jug’s never been good with sympathy, which is why Reggie seems to get him so well – problems and solutions, the emotional element of it uncomplicated and clear, not clouded and murky the way his and Archie’s relationship has been lately. That same, indefinable mist in the water seems to cloud his face now, as he sees Jug curled up against the far wall, and Jug’s grateful Reggie’s got the sense to lock the door behind the three of them, crowding them together, true, but out of sight from whoever could be wandering by outside.

Archie’s brows are drawn as he brings himself down to Jug’s level.

“I’m sorry.”

He reaches out, but Jug pulls away.

“You really don’t want to do that.”

He hasn’t washed his hands yet, he’s not even sure that his legs would hold him if he tried to stand, and he knows the bathrooms at Riverdale High are grim, but Archie seems to take it as a personal rejection.

“Are you sick?”

Archie indicates the toilet, which Reggie, thank God, flushes before leaning back against the locked door. Silently, over the redhead’s shoulder, Jug pulls an expression that he hopes comes across as ‘Should I tell him?’ and Reggie shoots one back, that seems to say ‘Up to you.’

Archie, caught in the middle, snaps.

“What the fuck is it that you’re not telling me?! What’s the big fucking secret you two’ve been keeping?”

And Jughead’s mouth seems to move before he puts any thought behind it.

“I’m sick, okay?”

The words hang in the air, Archie waiting expectantly for the continuation, Reggie watching encouragingly, and Jug continues, picking at the rips in his jeans with increasing ferocity.

“I-I’m sick and I’ve been sick for a while now, since spring, I think, and I just eat so much that I h-have to throw it up—well I did, and I still do, but not as often because the other week Reggie saw me… he saw me in the toilets and he’s trying to help by making me food that I won’t vomit, and sometimes I still do but not all the time, which I guess is what matters. So when we spend that time together that’s why, Arch, because he was helping me and I couldn’t tell you—you’ve got no fucking right to ask me why I couldn’t tell you it’s just the truth, because you’ve made everything so complicated with us and I don’t know where we stand anymore and-- ”

“I love you.”

These words linger even longer, Reggie’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline, Jughead freezes midsentence and stares at Archie, who looks like he can’t quite believe what he’s just said. Jug can’t either.

“What?”

“I love you, Jug, and I don’t care if you’re sick, I’ve been wanting to tell you for ages, that’s why I was such an asshole about you and—”

Jug holds up a hand, and Archie falls silent, expression somewhat akin to a hare caught in the headlights of a car, like Veronica when a situation can’t be solved with monetary bribes. Jug’s eyebrows are furrowed as he tries to steady his breathing and speak.

“You’re telling me this _now_? You seriously think _now_ is the time for this to happen?”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry, I just wanted you to know.”

There’s a sharp, bitter laugh trapped in Jug’s throat, and the only reason it doesn’t make its way into the air between them is the sheepishness of Archie’s expression. He now resembles a hare who’s come into contact with the fender of the car, limping away down the side of the road, wounded. Jughead’s chest is tight, and he knows how this is supposed to go, that he’s supposed to say it back, because he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t true; he’s supposed to let Archie kiss him in the bathroom, or something equally implausible, but he doesn’t understand how a confession of love can suddenly erase how badly Archie’s treated him. He’s angry, and the way it manifests itself is in harder shaking, which just makes it worse.

“I don’t _need_ you to be in love with me, Arch. I _needed_ you to not treat me like shit.”

He tries to push himself up from the floor, and his legs come dangerously close to buckling, at which point Reggie makes a move to help him, but he manages to balance himself. His back to Archie, he washes his hands and splashes his face with water, trying to rinse off some of his embarrassment, before making towards the door.

“Jug…”

The turn he makes is fast, and more aggressive than he originally intends.

“I need you to fucking _be there_ , and if you being in love with me means turning your back when I get support from someone else, then you can fuck right off.”

And he leaves, Reggie following behind, leaving Archie alone in the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> archie :( jug :(


	5. v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wise women with wise words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betty and veronica get some airtime!
> 
> hey remember when i said the literary quality was gonna improve?????? lmao
> 
> also,,,, i can't keep jug and archie fighting for longer than 10 minutes so the boys are gonna reunite 
> 
> thank you for all of your lovely comments! i'm trying to make both archie and jug's reactions as understandable as i can bc they both have valid feelings and i love them both 
> 
> enjoy xxx
> 
> (p.s. i completely stole the "she smells like flowers and motor oil" from archie #1 bc it's the most adorable description of betty gdbye)

Veronica's waiting in the corridor outside, Jughead's bag and jacket in hand, and she raises an arched eyebrow when she sees the two of them leave together.

"You really know how to get the rumour mill turning, Jug," she notes, nodding at Reggie with a kind of standoffish tolerance, "Are you okay?"

She rests a hand on his sleeve, and he knows from the glimpse he caught of himself in the mirror that he looks resolutely awful, pallid and drawn, but he lies anyway, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

And he's eternally grateful that she doesn't push the subject, instead giving Reggie an unflinching stare until he makes his exit, leaving Jug with a worried, lingering look over his shoulder. He wants Reggie to stay, to tell him what to do now, but he can't expect Veronica to know that, and, after all, he needs to learn to sort out his own shit.

“Betty was texting you, she says she’s in the newspaper office?”

Suddenly, Jug remembers just where he’s supposed to be this lunchtime. He’s got an article in for tomorrow, some football report that Reggie was helping him on, and he promised Betty he’d help her with the layout of the next edition. That is, until he decided to cause a traumatising scene in front of the whole cafeteria. Betty might just be the only one who hasn’t heard about it, but as he sees Veronica’s fingers fly over the screen of her phone, he guesses the word has gotten around.

Archie's words are still ringing in his head, and the anger of the situation has worn off as they walk down the corridor, leaving him feeling hollow, and somewhat guilty, his face burning every time he remembers the look in Archie’s eyes. Something like regret flashes in him; regret at lashing out the way he did, and then, regret at opening up to Archie, when he should have realised his friend’s unique ability to twist any situation to focus on him. Archie is the sun, after all, the glowing golden boy and the centre of everyone’s universe.

And it’s not like Jughead isn’t in love with him. Because he is. He loves sunbathing in his light, and that love has been bubbling underneath the surface for months, brought to the surface in those moments like at Cheryl’s party, or when Archie fell asleep on him halfway through their Die Hard marathon, snoring lightly on his chest. The instances of intimacy are warm, and hopeful, and fall through the pit of his stomach when they return to the normality of hearing Archie gush about Val and her music, or, before they were together, Betty and Veronica, on alternating days, as if he had anything more than a missed opportunity with each of them. Jug’s not trying to be the bitter sidekick friend, because it’s not like he’d have a love life to talk about if given the chance, other than Archie, of course, and a brief period wherein he presumed the next stage to his friendship with Betty was a romantic relationship. It wasn’t, after all.

He usually wouldn’t have the first thing to talk about, were the attention refocused on him- he doesn’t wear the spotlight half as well as Archie - but he had something to say today, something that’s been choking him (literally) for the past three months, and he’s been drowned out. So maybe he is slightly bitter.

Veronica’s hand is still on his sleeve, which he’s grateful for, because his legs are still somewhat weak, and he practically collapses into the desk chair once they reach the office for the Blue and Gold.

Betty, peering at the computer screen, turns with a squeak in her chair, kissing Veronica hello and fixing Jughead with a concerned look. He seems to be getting a lot of those lately.

“Hey, Jug, you look…”

“Terrible, he looks terrible.” Veronica finishes her sentence for her, hopping up to sit on the desk beside her work, and Jug shoots her a withering smile.

“Gee, thanks, Ronnie.”

She winks in response, and Betty scoots over on the squeaky chair, resting her hands on Jug’s knees, and asking,

“What happened?”

In response, he slides down his own chair until he’s slouching to an impressive extent, and pulls his hat over his eyes.

“Tell me.”

She takes a monumental risk by lifting the brim, and breaking out her most convincing interrogation stare.

He should’ve told Betty months ago. There’s no doubt that, of all people, Betty would be the most understanding, and the least likely to interrupt his sharing with a badly timed declaration of love, but she was in L.A. all summer, on her wonderful internship, and there’s nothing Jug hates more than dragging other people down to the depths with him. He’s tried: in August, the night she got back, the night he made himself so ill he passed out, he came to and walked the length of town to stand between the two houses of the two best people that he knows. Shiny, picket-fence houses, with shiny, happy people inside, who didn’t deserve his tarnishing, were too bright and clean for him. He hovered by her steps for a good ten minutes, deliberated even longer at Archie’s, and then left, and walked all the way back to the hostel.

But she’s sat here, looking at him, and she wants to know. He’s opened up enough to people lately that he thinks he might have broken something inside – the dam of his self-preservation has a serious leak, but the words come easier the third time around. First Reggie, now Archie, now this.

“I think I’ve got bulimia.”

It’s the first time he’s used the word out loud, and the diagnostic sense of it carries significance he’s been trying to avoid. Significance that means this isn’t just the way he is, that he’s sick, and that the only way he can get better is by admitting that to himself. And, perched on the desk, Veronica nods, like it’s confirmation for something she’s been suspecting since his flying exit from the cafeteria. Betty listens as he briefly recaps the past months in terms of his mental health and, sheepishly, because it’s not his secret to tell, shares Archie’s reaction, at which it’s Betty’s turn to have her suspicions confirmed and Veronica’s to be surprised.

“That boy needs to learn to shut his mouth.” She quips.

With surprising strength, Betty pulls Jughead into a hug, and he deflates against her at the contact, needy for the physical support. She holds him there, silently, imbuing him with the determination that rolls off her, and he finds himself burying his face in her neck – she smells like flowers and motor oil, and he feels guilty for sullying her, but, God, he’s needed this for about half a year.

And once they’ve pulled apart, she cups his face in her hands like he’s a child, and speaks.

“I _know_ he was wrong to say that when he did—The way he did. Believe me, Juggie, I know. But it’s the only way he knows to tell you he’s there for you.”

Something in Jughead knows that she’s right; the part that’s known Archie Andrews and his roundabout ways of communication since childhood. The part that’s been cleared of nausea, confusion and reactionary anger, and now concedes to the wise words of Betty Cooper.

“He probably thinks you want to hear it, so you feel supported.” Veronica pipes up, and Jughead wonders how he was blessed with such wise women in his life.

He gently removes Betty’s hands from his cheeks, and smiles, biting the inside of his lower lip as he thinks.

“I’m not saying you have to leap into his arms, Jug,” she continues, “Just don’t push him away.”

Veronica hops down from the desk, moving over to stand behind Betty’s chair and rest her hands on her shoulders, asking the all-important question.

“Do _you_ love _him_?”

“Ronnie!”

And Jug can’t help but laugh at her brashness, sliding back down in the chair and shrugging noncommittally by way of an answer. He knows, from Veronica’s intuition, that this is all he need do, and she lets out a small: “I _knew_ it.” under her breath.

“So, when are you going to the nurse?”

Betty’s determined expression becomes suddenly less comforting at the prospect of Jug seeking professional help, and he tries to explain his reasoning as best he can in the face of it.

“I… wasn’t going to. It’s more trouble than it’s worth, and besides, I’m getting better with Reggie’s help.”

There’s something condescending in the response that makes him bristle, but only because she’s throwing his own thoughts back at him.

“You’re not going to get better with some salad, Juggie. You need a doctor.”

He knows he does. He knows he needs therapy, (he needs it for a lot more than this), but, until recently, emotional transparency is really not his strong suit. What’s more, doctors mean money, and lots of it, which he doesn’t have, and which he has no way of obtaining. Doctors also mean parental communications, forms for his dad to sign, conversations between his father and health professionals explaining why he feels the need to make himself sick, the deep- seated emotional trauma that causes him to destroy his body on a near-daily basis.

The thought of it is making him tense, and Betty seems to sense it.

“We’ll talk about it later, okay? Come help me with this layout.”

She’s like an angel on wheels, scooting back over to the desk on the squeaky office chair, and Jug follows, pulling out his phone to check how long before the end of lunch.

 **from:** reggie mantle

_I’m working on the project with Midge after school. Come find me so i know you’re ok. We’ll be in the Library_

**from:** archie

_i’m sorry about saying that when I did I should have been listening to you_

**from:** archie

_if you want I can drive you home. let me know_

As stupid as he can hear himself sound, he misses the battered creaks of Archie’s truck, the clunky turn signal, the tinny radio. He misses falling asleep in the passenger seat. He misses Archie.

 **to:** archie

_yeah that sounds good. i need to talk to you._

They have a lot to talk about.


	6. vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reconciliations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this! is! very! short! i'm! sorry!
> 
> these boys are stoopid and i love them
> 
> enjoy x

As the day progresses, it starts to rain, in some sense of pathetic fallacy, and Jug nearly falls asleep in class four times. Halfway through Math, he thinks that if it didn’t mean having to walk the whole way he’d probably flunk out now and go home, then remembers his promise to Archie and manages to summon enough energy to at least appear alive and engaged until the end of the lesson.

When 3:15 rolls around, he’s on the edge of exhaustion, running on what little nutrition he managed to scrounge from his lunch before he puked it all, vision sluggish and dragging whenever he turns his head. The corridor swims as he walks down it, and the melee of students doesn’t help, so he finds himself staring resolutely at his feet as he walks, concentrating on staying on his own personal tightrope.

Rounding the corner into the library, he hears the high peal of Midge’s laughter and smiles to himself when he sees her and Reggie sat opposite each other at a study table, books laid out in front of them. The last thing Jug wants to do is intrude, but Reggie did tell him to drop by.

Jug’s perfected the art of the silent approach by now, so Reggie doesn’t notice him until he’s at his elbow, at which point he nearly jumps out of his skin, much to the amusement of Midge and Jug.

“Shit, man!” he exclaims, and turns, “Jug, you scared me to death. How’re you doing?”

And Jug glances over at Midge, who’s regarding the pair like they’re the oddest, ill-fitting twosome of friends that she’s ever seen. She’s right.

“Yeah, good,” he says, immediately contradicting himself with a sudden head-rush that causes him to grab the table for support. I mean, he’s ‘good’ in the sense that he doesn’t feel physically sick, but if that’s due to his a hollowly empty stomach, can it count as an achievement? After a long second that seems to drag into a painful minute, he’s okay to stand again, but Reggie’s eyes are still fixed on him.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, you kids have fun with your study date.” He smiles, squeezing Reggie’s shoulder, and Midge blushes, lightly, a soft look that contrasts oddly with the studs of her jacket but, Jug thinks, suits her well.

“How’re you getting home? You’re not walking, are you?”

Suddenly, Betty and Reggie have become daytime replacements for his parents, and the thought of the two of them packing his lunches, calling the doctor for him and driving him to and from school makes him one part amused and three parts resolutely disturbed.

“Archie’s driving me.” he says, noting the disapproval on Reggie’s face (a perfect imitation of his father, he’s really taking on this role) and trying his best to ignore it.

Jesus, his life would be a hell of a lot easier if Reggie and Archie could put aside their comic-book feud and actually decide to respect his life decisions. Then again, Jug considers that his life decisions landed him in this rabbit hole of twisted dietary habits and mangled mental health, so maybe he should also try taking some advice once in a while.

“See you tomorrow.”

He waves a goodbye to Midge, who salutes him, and makes his way out of the library, the corridors much easier to navigate without the majority of the swirling sea of exiting students. As he somewhat stumbles down the steps out of school and into the car lot, he spies Archie, chin resting on his arms which are folded dejectedly over the steering wheel of his grimy old truck.

The walk to the vehicle takes longer than he thinks it should, and Jug wonders if something about his energy deficiency is messing with his perception of time as well as temperature; by the time he’s opened the door and seated himself inside, he’s shivering through his hoodie and jacket. Archie flashes him a smile, and puts the truck, judderingly, into gear.

“I thought you’d stood me up, man.”

Jughead pulls his knees up to his chest, and curls against the door. With his luck, the thing will come flying off from the weight and launch him onto the tarmac.

“I had to let Reggie know I was okay.”

Archie takes a long, sideways look at him, compacted into the corner, and everything unsaid stretches out between them, fills the car until they can’t escape it.

“Are you… okay?” he asks, and Jug continues to stare out of the window as he replies.

“Not really.”

Jug expects a spiel, he expects the words to come tumbling out of Archie’s mouth, uncontrollable and ill aimed, like most things about his best friend. Instead, he seems to have gathered how much that method screwed things up earlier, so his speech is thoughtful, measured. Well- chosen.

“I’m sorry for not listening. I should have waited to say...that I love you. And I shouldn’t have used it as an excuse to ignore you like I did,” He takes a deep breath in. “I don’t know the first thing about dealing with… something like this, but I want to be there for you, whether you feel the same way about me or not.”

And an image springs into Jug’s mind of Archie composing this piece to himself as he walks down the corridors, or waits in the car, watching the hoards flood out of school, looking out for him. The redhead’s hands are tight on the steering wheel, as if he’s bracing himself for some inevitable rejection, and Jug feels hot guilt well up inside him that Archie expects from him a spiny, hurtful reaction.

“Of course I feel the same way.”

The words are barely audible for him, mumbled in some kind of wave of fatigue, but he knows Archie’s heard them from the double take he gives him, and the small, triumphant smile that grows on his face.

“You—“

“Yes, Andrews, I love you, now watch the road before you fucking kill us both.”

It’s impossible for Jug not to laugh at the redhead’s grin, and the way he drums his hands against the wheel, the way he changes gear like it’s the most exciting action of his life. He’s glad Archie’s happy, but wishes he’d tone his lovable effervescence down, because Jug’s running on less than minimum capacity, and the flurries of movement in the left-hand side of his vision are giving him something akin to motion sickness.

He leans his head on the damp window, hat absorbing some of the shuddering impact, and allows himself a contented smile, his eyes shutting. The regular motion of the car, and Archie’s warm, familiar presence envelops him, and, quite unintentionally, he succumbs to unconsciousness.


	7. vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> conclusions and continuations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are friendos, end of the line ! this had to end somewhere and it tied off nicely here~
> 
> also, after writing this chapter i realised i talk abt pancakes in the first chapter too and in my defence i really love pancakes ok ??
> 
> enjoyyyy <3 x

If there’s one smell of food that could never make Jughead feel sick, it’s the scent of waffles that seems to permeate everything belonging to Archie Andrews.

As he buries his face in pillow, he realises that this smell is nowhere to be found in his room at the hostel, and neither is this level of softness, his semi-conscious brain making an assumption that his eyes confirm once he manages to blink them open blearily. He’s in Archie’s room, band posters and football pennants littering the wall and that nostalgic, comforting scent lingering in the air.

He’s alone, and, checking the time on Archie’s alarm clock, has been asleep for just over five hours, meaning that he should probably feel rejuvenated, but instead his limbs feel like they’re made of lead, and he’s got gaping hunger in his stomach. Underneath the covers, he can feel he’s still wearing his jeans, but his jacket and hoodie are slung over the back of Archie’s desk chair, and the domesticity of it makes him smile involuntarily. Archie has had the sense to not take off his hat.

“Knock knock?”

The boy in question is at the door, accompanying his greeting with a superfluous real knock and a glowing smile, and Jug summons all of his strength to pull himself up to a sitting position, the air cool around his shoulders through his worn t-shirt.

“Ready to rejoin the world of the living, huh?”

The mattress dips as the redhead sits himself down, tentatively, and Jug rubs the sleep from his eyes, pulling his hat more firmly onto his head.

“Barely,” he says, wryly, “I feel like I could sleep forever.”

And as Jug yawns and stretches, bodily, hem riding up, he can see the way Archie’s eyes dart around him, like he’s not sure where to look, and he settles for looking at his lap, light blush dusting his cheeks as he replies.

“I was going to cook you something, but…”

The proverbial elephant in the room appears as Archie’s speech fades, unsure, and Jug can hardly blame him for not knowing how to approach the subject, but something still clenches in him at Archie’s nervousness. He and Archie work on a basic level of lifetime familiarity, their mutual, semi-psychic companionship consolidated in years of treehouse summers and impromptu sleepovers. A companionship that lets them sit in silence, without a need to fill the negative space, a kind of grounding anchor that Jughead is paranoid has shifted, whether through his admission of illness, or the addition of something _‘romantic’_ into the mix. Jughead doesn’t want _‘romance’_. He doesn’t want it if it means dancing around each other in a messy, unsure, attempted replication of what you see on a Hallmark card. He just wants Archie.

He inhales.

“Archie?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you make pancakes?”

He can see him physically relax; pancakes are something Archie can do easily, and deliciously, and Jug thinks that after almost 12 hours of not eating properly, he’ll probably be able to keep them down.

They’re the food of weeknight sleepovers, of the morning before Archie had perfected the recipe and they ended up with floury lumps in every one, and enough batter to feed an army. They managed to eat it all between them at the breakfast table, sun streaming through the windows, making themselves late for school and leaving the kitchen in a state that Jug is sure Fred wasn’t best pleased about. It was March, Jug remembers, and the weather almost definitely wasn’t as bright as he thinks, but all of his memories with Archie are sun-kissed.

“Sure.”

And before he’s really aware of what he’s doing, Jughead’s leaning forward, a hand on Archie’s shoulder as he presses their lips together, slow, simple, uncomplicated, and probably lacking in any skill whatsoever, but neither of them seem to mind. He grounds himself on the warmth of Archie radiating through his shirt, and feels a hand come up to rest on the side of his torso, hyper- aware of the way his ribcage presses through his skin, the fundamental juxtaposition of Archie: made for human contact, solid and tactile, and Jughead: comprised of angles out of something brittle and not for touching.

It’s his first kiss. There are no fireworks, and he’s too hungry to feel butterflies, but there is a slow, glowing heat in his toes, and the security of Archie’s hands on him, ready to catch him if he should fall. For once, Jughead feels like the edge of the cliff isn’t so close.

They break apart after a minute that feels like a year. Archie grins, sunshine boy, and Jug finds the wherewithal to mimic him, disused muscles straining in his cheeks at the widest smile he’s pulled in months.

“I’ll get started on those pancakes, then.”

He pulls back, and Jug is surprisingly tempted to reach after him, but instead sits in some sort of daze on the bed instead, catching the soft, clean pyjamas that Archie tosses to him from his dresser: a silent invitation for him to stay the night.

It’s only then that the wider world seems to seep through the edges of Archie’s self-contained oasis of a room: the clothes he hasn’t been able to wash in over a week, the single, narrow bookshelf of his belongings back at the shelter, the image in his head of the last time he stopped round to see his dad, prone and unconscious on the couch in his trailer.

He’s managing, that much is true. Helpful synonyms include ‘coping’ or ‘surviving’, but it’s exhausting, treading water, sinking below the surface every other day in his singular struggle to stay afloat. He wants something stable, needs it, before he drowns.

And tonight, stability is sitting on Archie’s counter, watching him cook, flour dusting his hair and cheeks. Stability is not thinking about what he’s going to eat tomorrow, not thinking about where that food is going to end up; it’s letting Archie stand between his legs and kiss him, and laugh, and kiss him again until kissing has carved its space in their normality, is something they do without thinking.

Stability is the following day they take off school, the phone call from Reggie, partly to reassure him that his truancy is the opposite of worrying, partly to hear the animated recount of how _“She hugged me goodbye, Jug! Hugged me!”_. It’s him, swimming in one of Archie’s gym shirts, and the redhead beside him, playing their fourth time through Dragoncide, legs twined together on the couch.

 

* * *

 

He’s not better.

He’s not better by a long shot.

He still can’t make it through a meal at Pop’s without feeling nauseated, though his portion control is improving, and he tries to cook his own food more, with Reggie’s help. The first three sessions Betty sets up with the only crappy therapist his insurance can cover end with him storming out in varying degrees of anger or tears, throwing himself into the passenger seat of Archie’s truck, feet on the dashboard and arms knotted tightly over his chest. The longest he’s gone without vomiting is five days. But he’s getting there.

And he still has good days, and bad days, though the balance seems to be evening itself out. The day he leaves the hostel, for example, is a shining good day, handing his key back to Midge and moving his things into the Andrews’ spare room; they celebrate with Archie’s pancakes, because what else?

The day he tells his mom, about moving out, about everything, is a bad one, not because the outpouring doesn’t make him feel better than purging ever could, but because he can’t stand to be the reason for the pain in her eyes.

It’s a good day the day he sees Midge and Reggie holding hands in the corridor, and winks at them, to which they both return middle finger, and he smirks because they’re such a perfect fit.

It’s a black, miserable, no-good, very-bad day when his doctor gives him a prescription for Prozac, and a written diagnosis that feels like a brand seared into his forehead, and he shoves it to the bottom of his bag, orders three burgers from Pop’s and brings them all back up.

So yeah, he’s not better.

But he’s getting there, and he’s trying, and he makes his own salads for lunch now, though Reggie tells him he feels like he’s been put out of a job. And Archie’s learned not to comment on the way his clothes hang off him, but to just hold him when he needs it, and leave him when he doesn’t, and yell at him when he’s being a brat and won’t take his medication – which is starting to become less often.

Because he doesn’t want to be sick anymore, wrapped up in himself until he’s screwed and twisted the way he sees the world. He doesn’t want to be the invalid boyfriend Archie Andrews has to look after, the distant brother that Jellybean can’t talk to, the complete, pathetic, fuck-up of a human being he’s in danger of becoming.

Jughead Jones wants to be well.

And he’s getting there.


End file.
